“Nope.”
The door opened, and he jumped in front of me and turned back. “Cause I really do gotta go, um, potty. Sorry!”
And he slammed the door in my face.
* * *
He came out five minutes later, drying his hands, thank God.
“Hey, I cleaned up in there a little for you.”
“You are a good man.”
“You have no idea.”
“I have a ten-year-old boy and was married for nearly a dozen years. Guys miss. Often.”
He laughed and motioned for me to follow him. “Come here, I wanna show you something.”
“If I had a nickel for every time a guy at Starbucks told me they wanted to show me something in the bathroom...”
“Just come on, smartass. Check this out.”
He led me inside. It was an exact replica of the women’s restroom, complete with the baby-changing station. There was, however, one noticeable difference: the smell of urine. Also, there were one, two, three instances of graffiti, although minor at that. A pencil drawing of a man’s genitalia here, a pen drawing above the toilet that said “Shit here,” complete with an arrow. Helpful.
“So, I was cleaning the floor a little—”
“Cleaning the floor?”
“I have OCD, what can I say? Anyway, I was using a bunch of paper towels, pushing them around with my foot—”
“Why?”
“You seem like a classy chick, and I don’t want you to think all guys are slobs.”
“That’s sweet,” I said. “I still think all guys are slobs. All guys, except maybe you.”
“Better than nothing,” he said.
“I might have to marry you.”
He held up his left hand. “Someone beat you to it.”
“Oh, damn. Then can I hire you to clean my house?”
“You couldn’t afford me.”
I laughed. He laughed. I said, “So, what did you want to show me?”
“Well, I was mopping under the sink when my toe hit something.”
“Hit what?”
“Watch.”
He used his foot to reach under the sink and tap on the wall vent. Nothing happened at first. He tapped again, and the vent fell away, hanging in place by a single screw.
“Voila,” he said, and pointed.
I saw it, too.
It was an opening behind the wall.
An opening big enough for a very small person.
“Please tell me there’s not a dead body in there,” I said. Of course, the idea of a dead body in there didn’t disturb me at all. If anything, it intrigued me mightily.
“I checked, it’s empty.”
“Big enough to hold a person?”
“You tell me.”
“Give me some room,” I said, and dropped down to my knees. “Is the door locked behind us?”
“Let me check.” He checked. “Yes.”
“Good,” I said from under the sink. I felt my excitement rising. At least the floor was semi-clean, thanks to Mr. OCD.
I used my index finger to pry loose the remaining screw holding the vent in place. My nails might look hideous, but they did occasionally serve a purpose. I set the vent aside and peered into the dark opening. Behind me, Mr. Clean was peering over my shoulder, too.
“Seems small,” he said.
I studied the dimensions, my voice echoing within the dusty, dark opening. “I could fit.”
“I sure as hell couldn’t.”
“You’re also not a missing housewife who is, I think, even smaller than me.”
“Except she’s not in there.”
“Good point,” I said. I stood suddenly and shoved Captain Obvious hard against the bathroom wall, somewhere between the sink and the door. I pinned him to the wall.
“Hey, what the fu—”
I said, “You will forget me, the bathroom, and especially the vent. Oh, and you will forget me feeding from you, as well.”
“I...okay.”
I took his hand, made a slit across the inside of his wrist, and drank deeply from the man, all while he stared down at me in dumbfounded shock. I stared up at him, looking, I’m sure, like the ghoul that I knew I was.
When I had drunk my fill—a bloody latte, if you will—I released his hand.
“Now,” I said, wiping the corners of my mouth and licking my own fingers. “You will forget all of this.” I looked at his wrist, which was already healing nicely. “Now, go.”
And he went, confused, blinking rapidly. At the open door, he looked back at me once, blinked fast, and then was gone.
Now, said a voice in my head, a voice that didn’t belong to me. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
No, I thought. Not hard at all.
Chapter Twenty
I was sitting with Detective Sharp at a Carl’s Jr., a popular fast food chain here in Southern California. At least, it was popular to flesh-eating mortals, of which there were, apparently, many.
Detective Sharp was looking at me curiously as he worked his way through a hamburger that would have fed my entire family. Or would have fed them back in the day. The burger was called the Six-Dollar Burger. The catch being, of course, was that it was only $3.95. Brilliant advertising. You’re getting more than what you’re paying for. It also implied that you were getting a restaurant-quality burger without the restaurant price.
“You’re expecting me to believe that she hid in a vent in the men’s bathroom?” said the detective, after a few minutes of chewing. He had mostly swallowed when he spoke.
“Maybe not the men’s bathroom,” I said. “The women’s has an identical vent under the sink.”
He took another healthy bite from his burger. Admittedly, it looked like a six-dollar burger. It also looked delicious. What I wouldn’t give to—
“Then go buy one,” said Sharp.
Oops. He’d read my mind. I guess the detective and I were getting a little closer. I immediately placed my internal wall around me.
I said, “I dunno. Six bucks seems too much for a burger...”
“They’re not really six bucks,” said Sharp. “They’re like three ninety-five or something. Four bucks.”
I shook my head. “Says right there on the sign. Six bucks.”
“It’s called a six-dollar burger, but it’s really four bucks.”
“I’m so confused.”
“Look, it’s not really six—oh, you’re fucking with me.”
“Ya think?”
“Screw you, Samantha Moon,” he said, but laughed.